


lovely little dead thing

by darlingargents



Category: Sharp Objects (TV)
Genre: Blood, F/F, Fantasizing, Manipulation, Masturbation, Self-Harm, Sibling Incest, Violent Thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-13
Updated: 2020-09-13
Packaged: 2021-03-06 21:47:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 719
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26295889
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/darlingargents/pseuds/darlingargents
Summary: Nothing feels as good as killing.Except maybe Camille.
Relationships: Amma Crellin/Camille Preaker
Comments: 4
Kudos: 44
Collections: RelationShipping 2020





	lovely little dead thing

**Author's Note:**

  * For [summerdayghost](https://archiveofourown.org/users/summerdayghost/gifts).



Sometimes Amma imagines Camille dying.

She doesn’t want Camille to die, not ever. She wants them to stay together for as long as they can, bound by their blood, by the girls she killed, by their mother’s violence. But that doesn’t mean she can’t picture it: Camille covered in blood, Camille’s throat ripped open, the blood soaking into her hair.

Amma slips a hand between her legs picturing it, imagining the dying warmth of Camille’s flesh as Amma takes her apart.

She comes with the edge of a nail file digging into her thigh, a bead of blood running down, imagining cutting herself open like Camille. Carving words of devotion into her flesh, for her beloved dead sister.

Nothing feels as good as killing, Amma has realized.

She likes sex fine, likes finding someone to manipulate, to order them to hurt her. She likes videos, she likes imagining, she likes seeing things in pain.

But nothing feels as good as the moment she feels someone’s breathing stop, sees their gaze go from terrified to utterly blank as they slip away. It’s a heady rush of power that makes her feel invincible, makes her so wet it runs down her legs, makes her want to run a marathon or eat someone out or kill someone else, again and again and again.

Nothing feels like that. She doesn’t think she’ll ever find anything close.

Except maybe Camille.

Camille is real. She’s more real than Ann and Natalie, more real than anyone else in Wind Gap. Her skin is a map of her life. Everything about her is infectious. Amma wants to crawl inside her and never come out.

If she can’t do that, she’ll settle for sex, but Camille is obviously not as excited about that prospect as Amma is. Which is fine. Amma can wait and wear her down. If she’s good at anything, it’s getting what she wants, even if Camille doesn’t give as easily as Mama did.

Soon, she’ll have what she wants. Her head between Camille’s legs, hearing her cry out. Her knife buried in Camille’s skin, marking her up over her old scars, proving who she belongs to. Maybe even fucking her, with her hand or whatever else she can find, watching Camille fall apart.

She wants Camille to fall apart. She can imagine it, can practically taste it. It’s all she sees when she closes her eyes.

Amma wakes up screaming.

Well, not quite. She wakes up and starts screaming, long and high-pitched and agonized, cutting herself off after a few moments with sobs. She can still cry on command. It’s very useful.

Sobbing into her hands, she waits. Ten seconds, fifteen—

Twenty seconds after she stops screaming, the door opens.

“Amma?” Camille says softly. “Are you — oh, Amma.” She’s still crying, her face in her hands, and she feels the bed dip under Camille’s weight. An arm wraps around her, hesitant, and she hears the light click on beside her.

“I had a nightmare,” Amma chokes out, turning to bury her face in Camille’s shoulder. “I was — it was Mama—”

“It’s okay, it’s okay.” Camille starts to rock her, ever so slightly, her hands running down Amma’s hair in a gentle rhythm. She lets her tears slow to nothing, and sniffles a little, her face still on Camille. She shifts a little, pressing her forehead into Camille’s collarbone, her mouth hovering above her breast.

The collar of Camille’s shirt is wide and open, and Amma can see straight down, the line of her breasts, the bud of her nipple. Her mouth waters.

“Can I sleep with you?” Amma chokes out, imagining wrapping her mouth around Camille’s nipple, leaving a bruise and a lipstick kiss. Teeth marks in her ribs. Scratches down her hips.

“Of course, baby. Of course.”

Camille drifts to sleep quickly, and Amma watches her sleep for a while, the slow rise and fall of her chest. The curtain of her hair.

Amma slides two fingers into herself and bites down on her palm to stifle her cries as she comes, two feet away from Camille on the bed. After, she licks her fingers clean, and slides up next to Camille, wrapping herself around her sister.

It won’t be long until she’s broken Camille down, but until then, she can have this.


End file.
